ON THE Hume Highway, travelling north, where the road leaves the flatlands of Victoria and climbs and dives amid the bouldered sheep country of southern NSW, the sun takes a long time to die. Long after it's gone, a red glow lingers upon the grasses and the trees and the windscreens of the cars laden with children and gifts.
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From behind a steering wheel the world is looking a little bloodshot and weary. There are few trucks.
The road tonight, Christmas Eve, belongs to the pilgrims.
At a rest stop south of Holbrook, a dusty alcove among the trees, two station wagons that have seen better years sit side by side with their doors open. Luggage and gifts are piled on roof racks and strapped down. One of them has a red bow tied to its tow ball.
Seven small children run around in their pyjamas, senseless as puppies and just as happy. One of the cars has a man asleep in the driver's seat. Another fellow, hunched and quiet, smokes a cigarette and drinks tea out of a big tartan thermos with the women, the mothers. They also happen to be sisters from Geelong. The caravan is due in Newcastle in the morning.
''We haven't seen our mum for a coupla years,'' one of the sisters tells me. Her name's Briony, because that's what the others call her. They're shy people. They'd rather share their cigarettes than explain themselves. Not a lot of money. The ragged signs of an enthusiasm for painkillers that have long lost their joy. ''We got a brother coming down from Queensland with his family.'' The plan is to land on the doorstep at 5am so all the kids can open their presents together. ''We'll just poke along.''
A little girl runs up and smiles. She wants to say something. I have a couple of boxes of fruit mince pies. I break them out, accept a cup of tepid tea.
Soon after, I drive on. All along the highway, so many children, the unfailing signs of cheer. Night hasn't fallen; rather the shadows got longer and heavier until they took over. What remains is a sky where no star shines especially brighter than the others.
The speeding constellation on the highway high-beams the heavens into paleness. On the radio you hear people talking about Australians finding it hard to make ends meet this Christmas. Now and then you hear the old chestnut: ''Doing it tough.''
About an hour before midnight, high above Gundagai, where the country throws up the darkness of a dream, I am still looking for the Christmas star.
That's all I want, Santa: a guiding light for the pilgrims. Cresting a rise, I actually gasp. A red moon is lifting above the hills. Minutes later it creams and then silvers, rising to sit above the road. Round, not like a circle, but a big luminous sack, the heavy shape of pregnancy, drooping mournfully and beautifully from the overwhelming quietness of the night.
